


Where Loyalties Lie

by PantyDragon



Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, PWP, there's some angst also, well almost a PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PantyDragon/pseuds/PantyDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the tense hours leading up to House Do'Urden's attack on House DeVir, more transpired than preparations for war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Loyalties Lie

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like 2 years before I started Lifeblood and I finally decided to publish it. It's tangentially related but there will be both parallels and inconsistencies.This was just kind of my oneshot springboard. Also this was my first go at imitating Bob's style, which is not my favorite way of writing but...hey, enjoy the sex!

Malice’s stomach was belled out like a mushroom cap, doing a great deal to diminish her normally imposing visage. Jarlaxle only barely heard her hollow, spitting threats through his own silent, reserved mirth. She had summoned him, at some expense of course, to assure her victory against House DeVir; not by his involvement, but by his promise of inaction. Though her plotting had been thorough and her confidence was great, Bregan D’aerthe was nothing to be trifled with, and she had to be absolutely sure that Jarlaxle’s mercenary band had not taken up with her enemies.

The slightly eccentric rogue had assured her, repeatedly, that he was happy to simply watch this particular coup unfold. Even so, the heavily pregnant Matron paced anxiously, and her ungainly waddling forced Jarlaxle to work full-time to restrain the smile threatening to crack his lips.

“Dinin will soon return with word of Alton DeVir’s fate,” the Malice hissed, pausing to lock eyes with the perfectly stone-faced drow male, “and our attack will begin, regardless of the position of Bregan D’aerthe. I only warn you, rogue, that House Do’Urden is in the favor of the Spider Queen, and no wise leader has ever sided with the conquered. No living leader, at the very least.”

“Wise is your council, Matron Mother,” Jarlaxle cooed, eager to be out from under this scrutiny and on with his own business, “and it has long been known that none shall stand against House Do’Urden this night, not with fate aligned as it is.” As if on cue, Malice flinched, wracked by another contraction.

“Be gone,” she snarled, seeming finally satisfied by his response, or perhaps simply too distracted to give him any more of her valuable attention. Jarlaxle bowed his farewell, sweeping his plumed hat from his clean-shaven head and twirling his cape dramatically. The chapel guards glared at him uneasily as he passed, his high boots clicking loudly on the stone floor, but they made no move to remove him from the premises. Though certainly not trusted, Jarlaxle was too well-respected to be treated with open suspicion, unless the Matron commanded it.

He grinned to himself. In her distraction she plainly had not instructed anyone to escort him out. It was as good as giving him free run of the complex, and though there were a great many mischievous and profitable things he might have done with his unearned freedom, he had only one in mind.

Swaggering as though he himself were a Do’Urden noble, he swept through the winding passageways of the complex. No soldier dared question him, knowing that he had been summoned by Malice, and not yet realizing that he had been formally dismissed. He knew where to find the training halls, the domain of the weapons master, and made no illusions of tact as he crossed the wide arenas to the private chambers of Zaknafein Do’Urden.

He was disappointed – but not surprised – to find the door locked. Though this was hardly an insurmountable barrier for the mercenary leader’s wiles, he respected Zaknafein enough to knock instead of letting himself in. It was only when his rapping met with no response that he frowned and called out loudly, “Have you grown so inhospitable these last few years, my old friend?” After a long pause, he decided a different angle would be appropriate. “I hope that the insufferable she-rothé has not finally driven you to suicide,” he clicked his tongue in disappointment, “what a waste of life that would be.” He heard an incoherent growl from within, but within a few seconds the heavy metal door swung open of its own accord, inviting Jarlaxle to stride theatrically into his friend’s bedchamber.

Zaknafein was an uncharacteristically sorry sight. Though Narbondel’s light had not yet approached its peak, he was sprawled languidly on his bed among his very disturbed blankets, fully clothed but for his boots, and with his thick white hair tangled about his scowling face.

“Degahr, Zaknafein?” Jarlaxle asked, somewhat sarcastically: ‘ _are you troubled?_ ’ As he spoke he dropped heavily into a padded chair near the bed.

“I see you have come once again to plunge your forked tongue into my bare-stripped heart, as is your greatest pleasure” he snarled, curling pointedly to his side and turning his back on Jarlaxle. “Be satisfied with the knowledge that this is none of your concern.” The rogue lifted an eyebrow and smirked. If he had really felt so violated, he would have kept the door locked. No, it was something far more potent that had driven Zaknafein to such a mood. Jarlaxle knew well that for all his cool confidence, the weapons master was occasionally subject to such fits of emotion. _I suppose all that frustration must go somewhere_ , he mused reclining further in his chair.

“My friend, your accusation strikes at my very soul,” he lamented, perhaps more dramatically than was necessary. “How could you assume me so…unsympathetic?”

Zaknafein snorted. The drow word for “sympathy” came with vicious connotations.     “I do not doubt that you are capable of sympathy, which is more than I could say for most,” Zaknafein grumbled, his voice betraying more sadness than anger. He finally roused himself enough to turn and sit on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palm. “Even so, I spoke in earnest when I said that this is not your concern, and though I appreciate your company I fear that I had best keep my tongue behind my teeth.”

Jarlaxle’s smile widened and with a flourish, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and reached over his shoulder to place it casually on the back of the chair. “My dear and trusted friend,” he chuckled, reclining lavishly, like some great cat, “in all the centuries we have known each other, have I ever given up on a story so easily? And by your feigned evasiveness, it certainly promises to be a fascinating one.” He crossed his legs and laced his fingers behind his head, making a grand show of settling in for a short tale and a long conversation to follow. Zaknafein scoffed.

“Can you take nothing seriously?” He sighed in exasperation.

“On the contrary,” Jarlaxle declared, fiddling carelessly with one of his many jeweled bracelets, “I take everything seriously, otherwise I would not still be alive. But really, Zaknafein, stop with your games and tell me what it is that sets you so awry, for Malice may call you at any moment to meet Dinin’s return, and such a mood would not be fitting for the - ” he smirked, betraying his derision - “glorious battle to come.”

Zak shook his head disapprovingly, knowing that Jarlaxle, in his strange, flippant way, knew him better than he knew himself. He had not expected this visit from his one-time friend, but he could not deny his relief at his unexpected appearance, for it was true that despairing thoughts had filled his mind of late. He sighed, and said simply, “Malice’s child.”

Jarlaxle, already beginning to develop an idea of what was about to be divulged, pressed the subject only gently. “The thirdboy,” he added, “what of it?”

“It was not House Do’Urden’s Patron who sired him.”

Hardly surprising, given that a Matron Mother held absolute power over whatever male she so chose. Such infidelity found no punishment, legal or personal, in drow society. In fact, it was the general gossip that Zaknafein, willing or not, had already given Malice two of her five children.

“What of it?” Jarlaxle repeated, putting on a dismissive air, but in truth he was beginning to understand the nature of his friend’s melancholy.

“Do not pretend that you do not know what is done with third sons,” he spat, locking Jarlaxle in a piercing stare, and the mercenary turned his eyes downward, for he did indeed know: personally and too well.

“Related to you or not, Zaknafein, the child is Malice’s to do with as she pleases. You know males have no claim to their offspring.” Jarlaxle’s smile had slipped from his face as he regarded the surprising level of pain in his friend’s eyes. A strange hopelessness flooded Zak’s heart. He had long since grown accustomed to the repression and disappointment that came with his station, but there was something about the impending birth and subsequent death of his son that tore at him more profoundly than he could explain.

Jarlaxle, who had spent many years listening to his friend’s hopes and fears, understood Zaknafein’s despair. “You dared to hope,” he ventured, “that this boy might have inherited some of your idealism, hoped that he might see the world as you see it.”

            He could only glare at the floor, half-mourning and half-ashamed of his foolish, impossible notions. Jarlaxle had spoken his mind exactly, and although he had known the child’s fate from the start he had allowed himself dreams of happiness for a boy would not live to take his first breath.

Moved, Jarlaxle rose from his seat and crouched on the floor beside his troubled friend. “Zanafein,” he sighed, an uncharacteristic tenderness in his voice, “You have two children already by your servitude to Malice, both as hard-hearted and cruel as their foul mother. Nalfein, perhaps has some of your naiveté, and Vierna perhaps a shred of your quiet demeanor, but I fear there is no other such as yourself in all of Menzoberanzan, blood-related or no.” He did not respond, and Jarlaxle absently reached out to free a knot in Zaknafein’s silky white hair.

“I know that,” he muttered, “and it is not my intention to burden you with my personal turmoil, but I must confess, I appreciate your willingness to listen.”

“I have been burdened with your idiocy since we were young, and I have not once yet complained,” Jarlaxle reminded him with a chuckle. Zaknafein managed a smile, his mind much eased by his eccentric friend. “As she has done five times already, Malice will succeed in spewing out a vile little narrow-eyed wretch who you would be just as happy to slice apart yourself. Lolth, after all, would accept no less of a sacrifice. And think upon this battle of hers! You will spill the blood of House DeVir’s priestesses and come away cheerful as you ever have been.”

“If I could ever be called cheerful,” Zaknafein scoffed, though the notion of destroying a few more of Lolth’s elite certainly did not sit ill with him. Jarlaxle released the lock of Zaknafein’s hair, now free of snarls, and tilted his head to regard his seated friend from a lower, jauntier angle.

“You once were,” Jarlaxle recalled, smiling as broadly as ever, “I knew you long before such strange troubles consumed you. Our decade at the Academy was not happy by any stretch of the imagination, but we found distractions.” He slid Zaknafein’s hair through his fingers again, this time not bothering to excuse his motion by hunting for a tangle.

Zaknafein lifted an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between intrigue and exasperation. “I do not recall inviting any such distraction,” he noted, flicking a finger sharply against Jarlaxle’s palm.

“Perhaps not aloud,” he mused. Undaunted by the reprimand, he brushed his fingertips against Zaknafein’s throat.

“Stop your nonsense,” he scolded, pushing Jarlaxle’s hand away once again and leaning back slightly, putting more distance between himself and the mercenary. “I will not entertain such childishness, and you said yourself that I may be summoned any moment.”

“In which case you had best stop complaining so we can be done with this,” He stood and unclasped his colorful cape, tossing it casually into the chair behind him. Zaknafein gave no indication of agreement, only scowled up at him disapprovingly. Jarlaxle laughed, “This again? If you want me to leave, you need only ask. I know a hollow refusal from a genuine one.” Jarlaxle was certainly more compassionate than most, and he was happy to cope with his friend’s outbursts, but the security in House Do’Urden had never been so distracted and he had not had a moment alone, in private with Zaknafein for perhaps half a century. Punishment be damned, he would be hard-pressed to pass up such an opportunity.

He pressed his palm to the weapons master’s well-muscled sternum, then balled a fist to grasp the front of his shirt. With only a little coaxing, he pushed Zaknafein onto his back and dragged him further onto the bed, kicking off his boots as he went.

“This is the last time,” he growled, though without much conviction.

“You said the same thing last time,” Jarlaxle reminded him, clambering unceremoniously onto the mattress to straddle his friend’s waist. “As well as the time before that.” He bent low and his warm breath rushed against Zaknafein’s neck. “Yet you have never refused.” The sting of Jarlaxle’s teeth on his shoulder sent electricity down his spine, and he stubbornly tried to hide the upstart in his breathing. He felt more than heard the mercenary’s gentle laugh. Brushing his tongue wantonly against Zak’s skin, he released his bite and slid his hand beneath his shirt.

Zaknafein refused to give in to Jarlaxle’s pliant touch. His scowl remained as firm as ever, and he lay as still as he could bear. He wasn’t going to say no, but he was going to make his old friend work for what he wanted.

With characteristic eagerness, the rogue moved to pull Zaknafein’s shirt over his head, but he snarled and snapped his arms down to cover his belly. “No,” he insisted, “I don’t want to have to redress if I am called.” Jarlaxle knew that it was a complaint born of spite rather than genuine anxiety, but he smirked and released his hold. Instead, he moved back, dipped his head and dragged his tongue along the exposed strip of dark flesh between Zaknafein’s shirt and his waistband. The weapons master shuddered slightly in spite of himself and the blood that suddenly rushed from his head to meet needs elsewhere was very telling indeed. Jarlaxle bit roughly at the smooth, firmly toned skin of his stomach, and was fiendishly satisfied by the sharp intake of breath that made his friend’s body tremble. Emboldened, he slid his hand over the now-undeniable bulge between Zaknafein’s legs.

The lightheaded weapons master had lost the strength to protest. A giddy smile threatened at his lips as Jarlaxle's silver tongue pressed into his navel, making his whole abdomen feel deeply and pleasantly warm. Jarlaxle was having far too easy of a time working him up. It had been too long. Far, far too long.

He allowed Jarlaxle to slide his pants lower down his hips, closing his eyes and drawing a deep, calming breath to keep himself in check. Short nails dug impatiently into his thigh and his heart sped. He scolded himself for being so easy, so predictable, but the mercenary's tenacity was matched only by his attentiveness, and with the history they had together it was hardly a surprise that Jarlaxle knew just where to touch and just where to bite. His friend's mouth left deep, reddish bruises, visible even against the dark skin of his hips, and he relished the thought that he would not have to hide them from Malice. They would ache for days. The very thought sent a shudder through him.

Jarlaxle moaned softly against his friend's stomach. The taste of Zaknafein's skin was familiar and intoxicating. In spite of his ire the want he exuded was palatable, and Jarlaxle would have drawn him out for hours just to feel that desire along his tongue. But he couldn't. He never could. It was always like this with Zak: quick and hard and furtive, tinged with melancholy or frustration or worse. Such was his life.

The sting of his teeth forced a sharp, euphoric gasp from Zaknafein’s parted lips that brought Jarlaxle back to the moment, and he forced his bitterness aside, for this wasn't an opportunity to be wasted.

"Hurry," Zaknafein murmured, and there was a hard edge to his voice as well, for he certainly didn't _want_ to be hurried. It was a matter of circumstance.

Jarlaxle – plainly not sharing his friend’s concerns – quickly stripped down to nothing but bracelets, retook his position astride Zak’s hips, and deftly began to unlace his pants. Zak watched his fingers move with a strange, rapt reverence.

Jarlaxle winced and panted slightly as he took Zak into his body, for an instant willingly divested of his bravado and his aloofness: vulnerable. Zaknafein let his back arch a little, pressed upward with his hips, and Jarlaxle leaned eagerly into the thrust. Zaknafein’s heart pounded. It had been decades since he’d had Jarlaxle last, and the sudden awareness of that deprivation ached in his stomach. He ran his calloused palms up Jarlaxle’s thighs, feeling the slow tension and release of muscle as he moved. He dug in with his fingernails and Jarlaxle answered with a soft, wanton sound.

Zaknafein felt a warning tremor rush through him, and a tightening knot low in is abdomen. He gasped softly, praying that it would last but sure that it wouldn't. Quickly, his body went taut, his back arched, and just as a longing cry rose in his chest, Jarlaxle's hand pressed tight over his mouth, restraining him, making him feel as though his chest would burst.

This was what they had done when they were young, during their first feverish trysts in the crowded barracks. They had been hot-blooded enough that the lack of privacy had not deterred them, yet not naïve enough to think that the sound of movement and breath alone would not give them away. Still, Zaknafein remembered vividly when – shot through with pleasure and a tinge of fear – his new lover had covered his gasping mouth and forced a lingering, silent orgasm from his shaking body.

He lost himself in that half-lived, half-remembered moment, gladly forgot all that had happened since and all that loomed moments from now, all his fear and rage. A strange serenity flooded his mind as he came, awash in the heat of Jarlaxle’s body and mindless of all else.

The euphoria had barely begun to dim when there was a heavy pounding on the door and a muffled but urgent shout of “Weapons Master!” Zaknafein’s eyes snapped back into focus just in time for him to catch the most profound look of disappointment he had ever seen on Jarlaxle’s winsome face.

Zaknafein did not need to voice his regret; it reverberated soundlessly between them until the door shuddered again and the shouting resumed. With a misdirected snarl he shoved Jarlaxle over onto the bed and hurriedly pulled all his clothing into place as he crossed the room. “I heard you, damn it!” He roared, throwing open the door and running off the young messenger with a flurry of insults that the poor boy almost certainly didn’t deserve. Zaknafein slammed the door again and hissed blasphemy to himself as he returned to the corner of the bed.

“Come here, I can be quick about it.” He murmured.

Jarlaxle smirked coldly. “Go answer your Matron’s call, I would rather have nothing than a few seconds of pity.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“You know what I would have you do, I have asked you a hundred times. What better time than now to forsake your house, Zaknafein? Let them fall, let them be crushed, if not for me then call it revenge for your bastard son.”

Zaknafein bristled. “Do not ask this of me, Jarlaxle.”

Jarlaxle fell silent for a moment. “Then there is nothing I want from you. Go.”

They locked eyes for a moment, then Zaknafein sighed shakily and snatched up his sword belt from the chair he’d left it on.

“Should you decide you have lied to yourself enough,” Jarlaxle added softly, “you know where to find me.”

Zaknafein said nothing, but the silence ached in his chest like a wound as he left the room and went to face the whims of his Matron.


End file.
